Regret
by blue-jean-serenades
Summary: And she's scared, absolutely terrified, because Jo can't help thinking that when she dies, she will leave nothing but ghosts behind. 5.10.


**Because I've never really been a big fan of Jo, but in retrospect, I realize how awesome she was.**

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><p>She always makes the wrong choice.<p>

Jo knows she is the farthest thing from perfect. Her life is a series of mistakes, a string of disappointments, and she will leave nothing behind her but a heap of bones and ashes. No lasting impression, no legacy. God, she was so damn _full of it_ back then—always arguing, always getting herself into trouble in her quest for independence, for enlightenment, for freedom. And what's the point, in the end?

Nothing, that's what. Her vision is fading and her guts are spilling out and she's clutching this rifle like it's her only link to this world and none of it matters, none of it makes a difference. There are hellhounds baying at the door, and Sam is crying and Dean is stoic and her mother's face is stony, her eyes knife-bright, and Jo knows she would tear down Heaven's walls stone by stone if it meant she could save her daughter but that won't happen. Not here, not now. Jo thinks she was always meant to die like this.

Hell, at least she'll go down swinging. Jo tells them what they have to know is the only option, tries to hold on to her last vestiges of control. _This is the only way_, she says, _I have to do this_, and they know she's right but damn it, nobody wants to be the first to admit it. So she tries to look as unconcerned as possible, tries to pretend like she doesn't care about hellhounds or explosions or her guts all over the floor, and it's not hard because she barely has enough energy to speak, let alone stage a massive freak-out.

And then they finally agree on it, only she doesn't hear because her senses are fading in and out like a bad radio signal and suddenly Sam is there in front of her, grabbing her hand, and Jo forgets how damn _tall _he is sometimes—and secretly she's relieved because he towers over her, blocking out the faces of her mother and Dean which is good because Jo doesn't think she can handle the tears right now, not without breaking down and admitting to everyone how scared she is, how _fucking terrified _she is that she's wasted her life, thrown everything away on her stupid, useless rebellion. That she will die and leave nothing behind and the skies won't fall, the seas won't part, and no one will even notice because she, Joanna Beth Harvelle, _didn't. Matter._

But she can't tell anyone that, Jo's supposed to have her game face on, so she squeezes Sam's hand and thinks of how noble he is, crying for her. She wishes she knew him more. Sam had always been eclipsed by Dean's presence, but she wonders if she could have loved him, in another life. If he could have been a friend.

He says something about how brave she is and how much he wishes he knew her more and how he's sorry for all the pain he's caused, that it's his fault they're in this mess, but Jo isn't listening because suddenly she can't breathe. It's the beginning of the end, of the final leg in this slow march to her death.

He leaves and Dean is there, all the thousands of things Jo wishes she could have said to him racing through her mind, but it's too late to say any of them now so she just drinks in the sight of his face and wonders if they would have worked. _Probably not_, she thinks, so she kisses him and it's the most glorious five seconds of her life—and then she lets him go, regret weighing heavy on her soul, because the last thing Dean Winchester needs is more baggage and she will _not_ let her sacrifice cause him more pain than necessary. Jo has caused far too much pain in this life already.

Her mother is a dim, shadowy figure, the comforting presence by her bed at five years old assuring her that Daddy's coming back, that there are no monsters under the bed, that everything is perfect and glorious and wonderful.

And then Jo is crying, and she can't stop, and she tries to tell her mother that she loves her and that she's so sorry for all the stupid arguments about hunting and guns and futures, because they didn't matter, none of it mattered—only her tongue is numb and it doesn't come out the way she wanted it to.

But Ellen is nodding and smiling and crying and Jo, no matter how hard she tries to hold on, is slipping away. _No_, she thinks, she can't go just yet—there's still so many things she has to say, so many things she has to apologize for. So many things she never said, like how she still remembers the lullaby her mother sang to her when she was three and how she's never blamed Ellen for the way her life turned out, that's all her fault and she knows that, and that she's sorry, so sorry for screwing everything up and not being the daughter her mother deserved.

But she's so tired, and it doesn't really matter anyway. The world is fading, closing in around her, and in the back of her mind, Jo thinks her life should be flashing before her eyes—but it isn't, and she can't say she minds. Too many regrets, too many things she wishes she would have done.

Jo closes her eyes and lets herself drift away.


End file.
